


I've Just Got One

by sarah_jehan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sherlock - Freeform, The Hounds of Baskerville
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 12:55:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/849804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarah_jehan/pseuds/sarah_jehan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slightly-altered episode insert in which John simply walks away from Sherlock after the “friend” in The Hounds Of Baskerville spiel and Sherlock watches him leave instead of going after him  and it's a bit fluffy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've Just Got One

Sherlock was keeping pace with John as he pursued, asking, “How about Louise Mortemer, did you get anywhere with her?”  
“No.” replied John, shortly.  
“Too bad.” Sherlock smiled to himself and then tried, “Did you get any information from her?”  
“You’re being funny now,” John gave an exasperated sigh.  
Averting John’s gaze Sherlock replied, “Thought it might break the ice- a bit.”  
“Funny doesn’t suit you; I’d stick to ice,” and then after a moment added, “So you’ve got something else to go on then?” Before Sherlock could respond John quickened his pace and added curtly, “Right. Good.”  
Panicking as he found himself gradually being dismissed, he called after the army doctor, “Listen, what I said before, John, I meant it,” Sherlock started, fighting the urge to run after a retreating blond. He licked his lips and took a deep breath, “I don’t have friends; I’ve just got one.”  
Turning back to look at Sherlock again, the army doctor opened his mouth slightly and looked as though he was hesitating on the brink of a retort. Sherlock watched passively as John then rolled his eyes and marched quickly away.

***

His jaw tightened and he could feel a slight pressure in between his eyes. Vulnerability; weakness; doubt. The forbidden truths repeated themselves in his head as he watched John disappear behind the trees. He had never before subjected himself to such feelings as they were, of course, beneath him. However, since the developments on the moor, the emotions had popped up far too often for his particular liking. His constant attempt to divorce himself from feelings had finally given way and his body seemed to be keeping up an effort to betray him at every possible opportunity. Obviously, he was completely aware of this. How could he not be? His mind, his brilliance, was impeccable; it was his human body that was causing him grief.  
He had seated himself in the grass, right on the spot where he had been left by John. Sherlock couldn't deduce what he was feeling, or why for that matter. He couldn't focus on Henry Knight, Baskerville or even Bluebell. John, however, seemed to be demanding quite a large amount of memory space.  
What the hell is wrong with me?  
He balanced his elbows on his knees and he let his face fall into his hands. He shifted uncomfortably as he rubbed at his eyes. He lightly slapped himself in the face, with the hope that in doing so his ‘hard drive’ would rid itself of the infernal experience altogether. He wasn't even sure anymore if cognitive re-calibration was even a legitimate useful tactic, but he was desperate.  
Sherlock moved his hand to his pocket and could feel the small, pliable cylinder concealed within. In the past, any desperation he felt had been linked to addiction, but as he considered the single concealed cigarette he came to the conclusion that that wouldn’t solve anything either. So much for the easy way out.  
So it was to be confrontation? Possible humiliation? The potential loss of his flatmate, as well as the only man he had ever come to remotely trust, despite the obvious mediocrity? No, he corrected himself, John is not mediocre. He is amazing. He is fantastic. He shook his head vigorously and groaned loudly through his tightly clenched teeth. He got up suddenly and took quick, purposeful strides down the path John had vanished.  
He spotted him easily in the pub. A man was with him. Lestrade. Sherlock banished the musings of why the Inspector could be in this area because of its utter irrelevance to his current state of mind; his current problem.  
The detective marched into the pub and clasped a hand (probably a bit too firmly) on John’s shoulder.  
“A word, if I may?” Sherlock was aware he was interrupting their conversation, but this too was irrelevant to his situation.  
John glanced slowly up at him, “What do you want Sherlock?”  
“To speak with you.” He resisted adding ‘obviously’ to the end of that sentence, and he was grateful he had used his better judgment since he knew how irritated John would be if he hadn't.  
“Alright,” The doctor gestured to the bar stool between him and Lestrade, “speak then.”  
Sherlock stayed rooted in place. He dropped his hand from his blogger’s shoulder and replied, rather unwillingly, “Not here, please. Somewhere a bit more… Private.”  
John sighed, got up from the bar stool and followed Sherlock begrudgingly out of the pub. At the doorway he waved halfheartedly to Lestrade, who was looking slightly annoyed at his sudden solitude. Sherlock pulled the man towards the trees and didn't stop until they were fully concealed from any potential passer-by.  
“Right then, what’s all this for?”  
“You… You didn't…” Sherlock searched for the right words, “look John, I meant what I said about you being a real and proper friend. My only friend, as it turns out. Even though you are of rather average intelligence I value your presence and I appreciate your basic input and your bare-minimal deductions.”  
Sherlock chanced a glance at John and saw his brows furrowed and his lips taught. Evidences of anger, impatience and annoyance, his mind had automatically deduced this much at least. Had he said something wrong?  
“I’m sorry, was that supposed to be a compliment?” John replied shortly, aghast at Sherlock’s words.  
“Well, yes it was actually,” Sherlock turned his back on his friend and said, in a surprisingly small voice, “Not good?”  
“Bit not good, yeah!” John sounded furious. This was not how Sherlock wanted things to go. He wanted-  
What did he want? Surely not something he could have. Objectively speaking, it was improbable. Personally speaking, it was impossible. He turned back towards John and watched the trained soldier mask of his friend harden into place.  
John.  
How could he not want John? How could he want John? This was all so illogical and to add onto that, across the few feet of distance between them, John felt completely out of his reach. He looked into the eyes of the man and spoke slowly, “I’m sorry, John,”  
Well wasn't that just completely pathetic! 'I’m sorry', really? Sherlock hated himself, a feeling which was also unfamiliar.  
“Right well, if that’s it, then I believe I’ll be going back to my drink now, thanks,” John turned to leave when, impulsively Sherlock grabbed his hand.  
“John,” Sherlock whispered looking at the hand clasped in his, which had, miraculously, not pulled away, “Maybe- maybe I didn't mean what I said before- about you being my friend.”  
“I figured you didn't,” John interrupted quickly. Sherlock could see minor evidence of pain wash over his soldier’s face.  
“No, no John you misunderstand me, as usual,” The irritation on John’s face returned and Sherlock quickly mended his slip, “what I mean is- I didn't express myself properly, as usual.” Sherlock looked around at the trees surrounding him (they offered no help), and then at the hand still held in his own and continued, “What I meant is, that I don’t typically hold any feelings,” he sneered at the word, “for most human beings, John,” He lightly gripped the hand a touch more firmly and finished, “I've- I've just got one.”  
John was evidently fighting off a smirk as he laced his stocky fingers amidst the detective’s long slender ones and replied, rather smugly, “So these feelings, what would you name them as? What does your great mind deduce about your body finally being allowed to feel?”  
Sherlock fought with himself debating what to say and what to leave out. Still his mind was not clear and he could feel his control slipping. He felt a bit like the first time he had tried to quit using the nicotine to help him sort through details. But this loss of control was different in many ways; it was more instinctual. He pulled his hand away from John’s and started pacing.  
“I’m not sure I can answer that, John.”  
“And why would that be?”  
Sherlock thought John looked as if he was enjoying his inner conflicts. He stopped pacing and spoke plainly and humbly, “Fear.”  
“Oh, so you’re afraid of me?” John looked confused, he hadn't expected that.  
“No, well yes,” Sherlock ran his fingers through his thick curly hair, “John it’s rather difficult to say something when you cannot deduce the outcome, surely even you must know that.”  
His patience spent, John grabbed Sherlock by his arms to keep him from pacing, “For heaven’s sake Sherlock, it’s a bloody simple question. Did it ever cross your brilliant mind that maybe some things are more important than knowing outcomes!?”  
“What could possibly be of more importance than accurate deductions?”Sherlock asked, dumbfounded and hating himself for feeling legitimate confusion.  
Instead of answering, John grabbed Sherlock’s shirt collar so that their mouths quickly met, and Sherlock didn't have time to deduce or react before John released his shirt and rolled his eyes and shook his head once, “You think you know so much.” John looked towards the trees.  
Shock registered on Sherlock’s face. It was quiet for a moment, mostly because Sherlock was completely at a loss for what to say. He stumbled on his words as his flicked his gaze between the ground and his blogger’s softened face, “That… that thing you did. That was- that was good.” Sherlock announced stupidly.  
A slight smirk played about the doctor’s lips and they were all Sherlock was really looking at. Still looking away from the detective, John replied, “Just good?”  
Hesitating for a small moment, Sherlock’s hands reached gently up towards his bloggers so that he could make John face him. Smiling like an idiot, he bent down towards his friend and whispered in a low purr, “No, not just good- amazing, John, fantastic even.”  
John let a smug smile tug at his lips as he whispered back, “I deduced as much.”  
Feeling that there was no need for anything more to be stated, the detective’s mind miraculously had cleared. Sherlock felt his senses sharpen and focus. He felt a new wholeness to himself. He dropped his hands from John’s face and stepped away. Stretching out his hand he said, with his mechanical baritone voice resumed, “Come on then, we’ve got a case that needs attending, and I’d be lost without my blogger, wouldn’t I?”  
John accepted the outstretched hand and tried to stop a smile by biting the inside of his cheek, it was business as usual, with the exception of this new minor difference, and that minor difference was all they needed to tie their loose ends together. They had long since accepted each other and this last step was simply looked at as a formality.  
“Yes, I do believe you’re right.”


End file.
